Uncharted (3 page)

“Are you sure that’s all, Kevin?”

“Thanks, Jess. Have a good weekend.”

He watched her go, noticed the stiff set of her spine beneath the sweater, and exhaled when the door clicked shut.

He rubbed his face and swiveled back to the window. He hadn’t wanted to hire a new assistant, but Jessica was old man Jewell’s niece or something. Fresh out of college with an MBA, the young woman was qualified and bright—shoot, within five years she’d probably be sitting in Kevin’s chair.

She had brains and connections—so why would she risk a guaranteed future by flirting with him? She wouldn’t, unless a fling would be no risk at all. A risk for him, certainly, but not for her as long as Harold Jewell held the title of chief financial officer.

Kevin blew out his breath as a sobering realization washed over him. If one day he
did
choose to accept Jessica’s unspoken invitation, he’d be the one to suffer at the end of the affair. A woman, especially if she was a subordinate, could nearly always make a sexual harassment charge stick. So if Jessica was as determined as she was bright, it might be better to strike before the darling kitten extended her claws . . .

But he didn’t need to solve that problem tonight. He had more appealing plans.

He turned to his computer, selected the icon for his organizer, then clicked on a name. The phone automatically dialed, then a smooth voice purred through the speaker. “Hello?”

“Claudia?”

“Darling, you know I hate that speakerphone. I’m going to hang up if you don’t—”

He grabbed the receiver before she could make good on her threat. “Forgive me?”

“That’s better.” She purred again. “You’re not calling to cancel, are you?”

“Not at all. In fact, I wanted to drop by a little earlier than we planned. I figured we could catch an early dinner, make it to the theater by eight, and then go back to my place for drinks or . . . whatever.”

“You want to eat early?” Her laughter was a delightful three-noted riff that tickled his ear. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sudden aversion to crowded restaurants.”

“Not an aversion, an attraction. To quiet nights, soft music . . . and you.”

“Oh my. I do hope this condition isn’t fatal.” She warmed the line with another careless laugh. “All right. Though it’s dreadfully unfashionable, I’ll eat early. Shall I see you at six thirty?”

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

3

Boston

David Payne peeked over the drape shielding his tiny patient’s face from her blood-spattered chest and noted the baby’s blue lips.

“Only sixty-five years ago”—he raised his voice so the students in the balcony could hear—“babies like this with cyanotic defects like Tetralogy of Fallot would never have reached their first birthday. This condition consists of a hole in the wall between the heart’s two major ventricles, an enlarged right ventricle, a defective pulmonary valve, and cyanosis, indicated here by the blue tone of the patient’s skin.”

He extended his gloved hand toward the nurse at the procedure tray. “The Castroviejo needle holders, please. We’ll be using 6–0 Prolene to suture.”

With the instruments in his hands, he bent over his young patient, vaguely aware of the murmuring students watching from above. The baby’s left lung had been deflated; the carotid artery clamped. His job was to repair the ventricular septal defect, connect the aorta and the pulmonary artery so blood from the aorta could flow into the lungs, and remove thickened muscle in the vicinity of the right ventricle.

Around him, his team of nurses, pediatric anesthesiologists, and surgical assistants supported and monitored the baby’s vitals. He hoped the observing students had settled in for the long haul. He knew the parents, a couple in their twenties, would not move from the waiting room until he approached with news.

As Handel’s
Water Music
rippled from the CD player, David’s hands fluttered over the tiny opening in the chest, suturing, clamping, probing with a gloved finger for miniscule pulses of blood flow. Despite the room’s cool temperature, a nurse swabbed at his brow. Across the table, Roberta Jones, his assistant, worked silently, expert now in the meanings of David’s squints and tongue clicks.

At last, David lifted the needle holders, peered at the tiny heart, then looked at Roberta.

“Sure you and your husband can’t use a few days under the palm trees, Dr. Jones? It’s summer year-round down there, you know.”

Roberta’s eyes smiled at him above her surgical mask. “My concept of a vacation includes a frosty drink and a cabana. Yours is a little short on creature comforts.”

David peered over the drape and examined the baby’s complexion. “Ready for the magic moment? Dr. Jones, please release the carotid clamp.”

Within seconds, the increased blood flow to the infant’s lungs painted the baby’s face a healthy pink.

“Would you look at that.” Though he had performed this operation scores of times, David couldn’t keep a note of awe from his voice. He looked up at the observation deck, where a dozen students leaned over the balcony railing. “Isn’t she pretty? There’ll be one less blue baby in the world tonight.”

The students broke into applause, and David smiled at his surgical team. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your help. Well done.” He lifted a brow at Roberta. “You sure I can’t talk you and John into spending a week in the tropics? Aren’t you even a little tempted by the thought of sun, sea air, and honest manual labor?”

Roberta’s laugh puffed through her mask. “No thanks, Doc. You can strain a muscle without our help.”

“You’ll be sorry.” David handed his tools to the surgical nurse and glanced at Dee Barnes, the pediatric anesthesiologist. “Everything okay at your end, Dee?”

“We’re holding steady, Doctor.”

“Good. I’m going to leave Dr. Jones to wrap things up while I speak to the parents.”

After pulling off his gown, gloves, and cap, David approached the waiting room. Through a window in the door, he saw Caleb and Jennifer Witherspoon sitting on a cracked vinyl sofa with their hands tightly folded. Though they were both staring at a television against the opposite wall, their eyes were wide and distracted, their mouths tight.

Grateful that he brought good news, David stepped into the room. The parents were on their feet before the door closed. “Caleb, Jennifer,” he said, smiling, “your little girl is a trouper. Nicole’s heart is beating perfectly, and blood flow through the lungs is much improved. Everything went as we expected.”

The mother sagged against her husband, a young man whose chin wobbled despite his desperate attempt to be brave.

David clapped Caleb on the shoulder. “She’ll be in surgery awhile yet. After Dr. Jones finishes, she’ll wheel Nicole into recovery. Once your baby’s stable, you can visit her in the NIC unit. She’ll sleep for several hours, but by tomorrow morning she should be awake and alert. Don’t be alarmed when you see the ventilator—the machine is going to breathe for your daughter while she rests from the surgery. Tomorrow, if all is as it should be, Dr. Jones will remove the ventilator and allow your daughter to breathe on her own.”

A flush of color flooded Jennifer’s face. “I don’t know how we can ever thank you, Dr. Payne. You’re brilliant.”

David shrugged away the compliment. “Your beautiful little girl is blessed to have parents like you.”

Caleb swallowed hard. “We didn’t know what to do, but you did. When I think about how we could have lost her—”

“Nicole’s not ready to give up, so neither should you. Oh—when you visit her in the NIC unit, you’ll see lots of tubes connected to a heart monitor, a urinary catheter, and an intravenous catheter—they’re all routine.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Jennifer’s brow unfurrowed, assuring David that he could break his next bit of news. “I should let you know I’ll be unavailable for the next two weeks. Dr. Jones will supervise your baby’s postoperative care, and she’s excellent. I’m leaving you in good hands.”

A flicker of doubt entered Jennifer’s eyes, but Caleb managed a half smile. “Taking a vacation?”

“Not quite.” David grinned. “I’m leading a construction team to the Marshall Islands. We’re going to build a school.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a vacation,” Jennifer said. “Maybe you should find someplace close and take it easy.”

David laughed. “Now you sound like my wife—she’s always afraid I’m going to crush my fingers under a load of concrete block. But I’ve done this kind of thing for years, and I love it. Nothing like a change of pace to keep you on your toes.”

“Dr. Payne?” Jennifer’s chin quivered, and her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Are you sure Nicole’s going to be okay? It’s not that I don’t trust this Dr. Jones, but—”

“Dr. Jones is excellent. If I had the slightest doubt about her capability, I wouldn’t leave your daughter. You can quote me on that.”

Jennifer still looked worried, but Caleb Witherspoon extended his hand. “Thank you, Doctor. If you hadn’t been willing to take our case . . .”

“Any pediatric surgeon could have handled it.” David gripped the young man’s hand. “I count it a privilege to be of service.”

The device at his belt sliced into the conversation with a brain-piercing
beep
. He glanced at the number, then gave the Witherspoons a quick smile. “If you’ll excuse me, looks like I need to tend to a family emergency.”

Jennifer lifted both hands and took a step back. “Don’t let us keep you. And thank you for everything.”

After giving the young couple a final wave, David hurried toward the elevator.

David stepped into his office, closed the door, and pulled the beeper from his belt. The on-screen number, 911 513, was the code he’d worked out with Julia—family emergency. He dialed her cell number, then sank into his desk chair.

His wife answered on the second ring. “David?”

“In the flesh.”

“Thank goodness. Honey, I’m running late, and Nicholas needs to be picked up. Can you get him tonight?”

He glanced at his watch. “You’re in luck, woman. I just stepped out of surgery, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“The procedure went well?”

“Like clockwork. Roberta’s closing up, but that little girl’s going to be fine.”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

He snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. What time should I get Nick?”

“Mom says she has to go out tonight, so try to be there by six thirty, okay? And, honey—”

“Hmm?”

“If you could swing by the deli on the way, that’d be great. Maybe grab a meat loaf? Or you and Nicholas can pick out whatever you like.”

He grinned. “We’ll have a feast on the table by the time you get home. Any idea when that will be?”

“I’ll be tied up for at least another hour—we had an emergency in an exam room, and my plans went out the window. I would have had Tina reschedule the afternoon patients, but that awful flu is going around . . .”

“Take your time. I’ll see you at home.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“No, you’re not. But I love you anyway.”

“Love you more.”

“We’re not going to do this.”

“We’ve been doing it for ten years.”

“I’m hanging up now, David.”

“Okay. See you at home.”

He dropped the phone into its cradle, grinned at the thought of his exasperated wife, then scratched his head and glanced around his office. He still had to change out of his scrubs and dictate his report, but he should manage to leave within half an hour.

He hesitated as his gaze brushed the eight-by-ten photo at the corner of his desk. “The group,” circa 1985, filled the picture frame, a study in young people who thought they’d bonded for life.

As always, the photo filled him with a longing to reconnect with the friends he’d made in college: Susan, Mark, Karyn, Kevin, and Lisa. But these days they were busy people, and life had flung them in all directions. Still, he kept trying.

David blew out a breath and touched his sleeping computer mouse, intending to shut down the machine, but an e-mail he hadn’t finished appeared on the screen. The message, destined for his five college friends, detailed the trip, he had planned for next week. Every year he invited the group to join him, and every year the others refused to come. No matter how colorfully he depicted the awaiting journey, they responded with excuses ranging from family responsibilities to work conflicts. This would be the second e-mail he’d sent about this year’s trip, a last-minute opportunity for his friends to throw schedules out the window and surrender to adventure.